Free All Over You by Sarah Mayberry

If he took off too fast, she was liable to slide off the seat.
    “I’m fine,” she lied.
    Surreptitiously, she snuck a peek at his thighs flexing and relaxing as he clutched to change gears, then accelerated away from the light.
    Biting her lip, she focused her eyes higher, toward the substantial bulge in his crotch. She’d wondered about him so many times, how thick he was, how long, what it would feel like to have him inside her….
    The screech of brakes behind them brought her back to reality and she tore her gaze away.
    “Moron,” Mac said, glaring at the rearview mirror.
    He might as well have been talking to her. Eyes fixed straight ahead, she spent the rest of the drive reciting the times tables in her head. Anything to distract her libido from the object of its persistent desire. But she felt as though she’d let the genie out of the bottle. It had been years since she’d flirted with a man, exchanged loaded glances, laughed knowingly at risqué jokes. She didn’t know how to backpedal, how to shove the genie back down where he belonged.
    The genie wanted to get busy. And the chances of that happening were about a million to one.
    She practically sprang from the car the moment it stopped in front of her apartment block.
    “Thanks for dinner,” she blurted, but she saw with a sinking heart that Mac was getting out of the car.
    Just her luck — she’d eroticized the only Hollywood hunk with old-fashioned manners.
    Gritting her teeth, she scampered up the single flight of exterior stairs to her entrance porch. If they were teenagers, or even two normal people home after a night out together, she’d feel slightly nervous about the whole good-night-kiss thing. But she had no expectations where Mac was concerned. He was a star. She was…well, she was what she was — early thirties, too curvy, too busty, not pretty enough, veteran of too many dumpings to count. He may have flirted with her over dinner, but only because she’d been so tipsy that he hadn’t had much choice.
    Desperately, she tried to call on her Bette Davis demeanor, but she was too rattled to pull it off.
    “Okay. Thanks for dinner,” she said as she pushed her door open with trembling hands. “And, again, I’m sorry about today.”
    And tonight,
she added mentally. God, how was she going to recover from tonight?
    “Already forgotten,” he said. She couldn’t see his face properly in the dim light in the entrance porch.
    “Well. That’s good,” she said stupidly. “Anyway, I’m dying to get into bed.”
    She closed her eyes briefly as she heard her own words. She truly was not fit to be out without adult supervision.
    “I mean, alone. Get into bed alone,” she clarified.
    Offering a feeble wave of her hand, she stepped hastily toward her open door.
    “Grace,” Mac said from behind her.
    She froze. Despite all the common-sense lectures she’d given herself, despite all rational thought, she couldn’t help hoping against hope that he was about to say something incredibly sexy and romantic. Something straight out of one of her fantasies — maybe that he’d been unable to stop thinking about her all day. Or that he’d tried to fight it, but the attraction between them was undeniable. She’d even settle for “Yo, hottie” — anything that matched the unbearable desire-filled ache inside her.
    “My jacket,” he said.
    “Oh. Right,” she said.
    It was ridiculous to feel disappointed. Crazy, even.
    Turning toward him, she began to shrug out of his jacket, then winced as her long, dangling earring got caught on the collar. In vain she twisted her head and tried to free the snag.
    “Sorry, stupid earring,” she explained as she continued to struggle.
    “Here, hold still for a moment,” Mac said, stepping close.
    She held her breath as he loomed over her, grabbing her shoulders and spinning her toward the warm golden light spilling out from the lamp in her hallway.
    Stepping closer, he reached for the tangle of earring